


Aural Gratification

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aural Kink, Closet Sex, Coming Out, Dildos, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's not gay – he just likes listening to exciting stories about Aurors. It's not his fault that the narrator's voice is so smooth, so expressive... and really rather hot.</p><p><b>Career choices:</b> Harry: Ministry of Magic desk job; Draco: m/m romance narrator</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aural Gratification

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).



> For [Prompt # 12](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NnIZtnyWEqbQHgi3U6N1CwbznCTkDeZGWJqgEw6KRrQ/)
> 
> Thank you, gracerene, for this brilliant prompt which appealed to me straight away. I think I managed to include everything that you asked for except Draco with glasses, but I certainly imagine him wearing them when he is narrating the stories. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thank you very much indeed to my kind and helpful betas.

Harry let himself flop onto the sofa with a satisfying thump. It had been a horribly long week in the Department of International Magical Co-operation, but now he had a very well-deserved holiday booked, and he was planning to do as little as possible. This evening, for instance, he was going to indulge in his favourite way to unwind.

He put his feet up, arranged a pile of cushions behind him, and reached for the familiar silver bag adorned with the fancy logo of Flourish and Blotts. Their range of story spells had proved so successful that they'd had to magically expand the shop to make room for all of the new titles. Harry smiled as he slid the latest in a series of best-selling Animagus adventures from the bag. He knew these were for kids, but he'd seen load of adults reading them, and why not? They were brilliant fun. The other title he'd grabbed today was an impulse buy, with a very dramatic illustration of Aurors on the cover.

He turned them over in his hands, deciding which one to listen to first. His fondness for being read to had started when he and Ginny had still been together. Sometimes Harry couldn't sleep, and Ginny had the idea of reading to him – he liked drifting back to sleep with her calm, soothing voice still murmuring gently in his ear.

He didn't like to admit that it was one of the things he missed most when she left.

Harry made up his mind: he was in the mood for Aurors. He slipped his thumb under the seal and opened the package titled _Nye Porter and the Boggart's Curse_. He shook out the tiny book from inside with its miniature cover – the pages were real, but too small to be legible – and tapped it smartly with his wand.

A loud, deep voice filled the room. Harry moved his wand in an arc to adjust the volume, and then gestured to himself, to set it to speak closer to his ear. He much preferred it that way, the feeling of having the narrator there in the room, speaking intimately to him.

He leaned back against the mound of cushions and closed his eyes. The new story started with a tense mood and a midnight chase through alleyways. Harry didn't think he'd heard anything by this narrator before... no, definitely not. The voice was smooth and refined – classy, Harry would have to say. In fact it sounded as if the narrator was probably from some snooty old Pureblood family, but there was none of the stiffness Harry associated with those kinds of people. Instead, as the action started hotting up, the voice became more expressive, and took on the personalities of the different characters with verve.

The story revolved around a heroic Auror called Nye Porter, who was on the trail of his arch-nemesis, the Dark Wizard Tristan Melford. There were lots of descriptions of Nye's thick black hair, well-sculpted physique, and how dashing and manly he looked in his Auror uniform. Probably the kind of thing housewitches enjoyed listening to, thought Harry. However, the narrator really put his all into the passages depicting Nye's enemy, Melford. Melford was apparently stunningly attractive, with chiselled features, a slim, toned body, and white-blond hair which streamed back from his face.

He did sound quite striking, Harry had to admit. He was surprised to find himself looking forward to Melford's appearances, and relishing the way the narrator acted out the antagonism between Melford and Nye. Melford was a master of sarcasm and got all the best lines, but Nye's fiery responses were equally enjoyable to listen to. Harry shifted around on the bed for a while, trying to get comfortable, and then flicked his wand to pause the recording, so he could go and get himself a drink and open a window. It seemed to have got uncomfortably warm in his flat.

Harry gazed out of his kitchen window at the purples and blues streaking the sky. Perhaps he would go out for a walk. He felt sort of restless... a bit edgy, in a good way, a way he hadn't felt for a while. In the probably-about-time-he-got-laid way.

He might fancy a drink at the Snape Arms. Maybe even find a witch to talk to. Maybe someone blond. Someone like that girl he'd seen last month, the one with the smirky mouth. Mmm, yes. That was a great idea. It was funny, because usually after listening to his books he felt sleepy and relaxed, but tonight he was all fired up; he snatched up a coat from the hook and took the stairs at a run.

 

~~

It was a mild Autumn evening and Harry left his jacket unbuttoned, enjoying the soft breeze across his skin. He headed for the pub, walking quickly through the darkening streets, but then, when he got there, the thought of pressing into the crowded, noisy room didn't appeal. Far better to be alone with his own thoughts. He took a right turn and strolled down towards the river instead.

Lights were twinkling across the choppy water as Harry reached the river path. He walked for a while, enjoying the smoky sky and the sound of the halyards slapping against the masts, before finding his thoughts straying back to Nye Porter and the nefarious Melford. He had left them at a particularly suspenseful moment: Melford had Auror Porter cornered in an alleyway, and was digging his wand painfully into his throat. Harry had every confidence that Nye could get the upper hand again, but something about the situation made his own throat feel dry.

He looked about. There was no-one else nearby, only a dog and its owner a way ahead of him on the path. By chance he had happened to slip the tiny book into his pocket when he left; he could resume the spell here and listen to the rest of the chapter. Harry tapped the cover and felt a pleasant shiver as he walked on with the eloquent voice of the narrator curling into his ears again.

His voice really reminded Harry of someone. It was almost like... _it was almost like Draco Malfoy,_ thought Harry – but deeper. And more vibrant. And... well, it was sort of...

 _Sexier_ , his mind supplied.

No! Not sexier.

Well, perhaps. He supposed a _witch_ might find it sexy. Possibly. He wouldn't really know. He, Harry, certainly didn't. He gave a little laugh at the thought and walked a bit faster, turning his concentration back to the story itself, rather than the voice telling it.

_Nye's wand lay useless, several feet away in a puddle._

The narrator drawled the dialogue in Melford's annoying, superior voice.

_“So, Porter, I seem to have you exactly where I want you, at last. And meanwhile, your dear colleague Wellesley is slowly bleeding to death at the safe house.”_

_Nye stood pressed up against the wall, his mind racing. Melford was standing uncomfortably near, the scent of his expensive French cologne filling the Auror's nostrils._

_“You think you're so smart, Melford.” Nye spat the words with contempt into Melford's face. “Shame you forgot one thing.”_

_“Oh, really?” sneered Melford, pressing so close that Nye could feel the villain's breath hot against his cheek. “And what is that?”_

_Nye leant towards the other man, Melford's blond hair tickling softly at his face as he brushed the shell of Melford's ear with his lips. “I don't need my wand to get you flat on your back.”_

_Nye's magic burst out from his fingertips and wrapped itself around Melford's wrists, trapping his wand hand, and jerking him backwards roughly. Melford stumbled and fell onto the ground, dirty water soaking his flowing black robes and splashing onto his handsome, haughty features._

_Nye looked down at Melford's long, toned legs sprawled across the floor of the alley. He used every inch of his six foot two frame to loom above him. “Next time, Melford, you'd better think twice before you try to outwit the Auror Department.”_

_Melford hissed in fury as Nye Apparated away to the safe house, determined to get there in time to save Wellesley._

Harry let out a yelp of surprise as he tripped over a rough, hairy shape in the darkness. It was that bloody dog he'd seen earlier! He quickly rapped on the book to pause the spell again and shooed the dog away, glaring at its owner.

His heart was thumping fiercely in his chest. _Well!_ he thought, his feet quite unsteady in the darkness. He reached a bench and sank onto it with relief. This certainly was a gripping tale. He wondered if Melford would manage to capture Nye and make him a prisoner at his secret hideout, as he had promised. Of course, Harry hoped not. Although it would be… interesting to hear about. In a way.

He tried to let his breathing return to normal. Perhaps it was not a good idea to listen to any more right now. The story was so distracting that he could easily bump into someone, or even walk into the river without realising what he was doing. The narrator certainly did capture Melford's wicked, sneering tones beautifully. It made Harry tingle with a strange sensation. Probably with the desire to see him get his comeuppance. He had definitely better go home and continue there. In another minute, just as soon as he was feeling up to Apparating again.

 

~~

Back home, Harry undressed, slipping into a sloppy old t-shirt and a baggy pair of boxers. He settled himself down on the sofa with a fat sandwich and a mug of milky tea, then eagerly restarted the story.

Nye was able to get to the safe house in the nick of time, Side-Along the injured Wellesley to St Mungo's, and then go back to the Auror Office to study his (copious) files on Melford, looking for clues. This part wasn't very interesting, to be honest, and Harry considered flicking forwards through the pages to move the narrator along to Melford's next appearance. Then, just as Nye was locking the office, ready to Floo home, Melford appeared from behind a large potted plant and managed to overpower him.

Harry paused, sandwich mid-way to his mouth. Melford dragged Nye down the corridor, his hands behind his back. Nye struggled and cursed, but Melford had him in a rather nifty Incarcerous, and it wasn't the slightest bit of use. Melford merely sneered and swirled his robes around, insulting Nye in his poshest and most evil manner. Harry was just starting to consider taking his t-shirt off, because it seemed like the heating charms were malfunctioning again, when the Floo chimed, giving him a few seconds warning before Ron's head popped out of the fireplace.

Harry nearly spilt the tea in his hurry to pause the spell and slip it into his pocket.

“All right, mate?” Ron asked, his hair flame-bright against the grate.

“Yeah, fine.” Harry sat up properly and wiped his fingers on his t-shirt.

“Someone here? I thought I heard voices.”

“Nah, just had the radio on.”

“Oh, right. S'funny, sounded like Malfoy for a minute!”

Harry noticed the lurid story spell packaging lying on the table and moved his plate to cover it. “Haha. Nope. Just me. Do you want to come through?”

“Yeah, great. Hermione's working late, again. Fancied some company. You don't mind?”

“No, go for it. I'll put the kettle on.”

 

~~

By the time Ron had left, several cups of tea (and then a couple of glasses of Firewhisky) later, it was definitely time to be getting to sleep. Harry felt the little book in his pocket longingly. Maybe he could listen to one more chapter, in bed?

He quickly set the cups and glasses to wash themselves, then gave his teeth a perfunctory _Scourgify_ and scooted down under the covers. Casting _Nox_ , he found himself breathless with anticipation as the narrator resumed the story mid-sentence.

_― Melford laughed, twisting Nye's arm up behind his back sadistically. “Did you think I would let you get away again?”_

_Nye looked up into Melford's steely eyes and a shot of adrenaline ran through him. There was something addictive about being at the mercy of this powerful, cruel man, his deadliest enemy._

Harry's legs fidgeted under the covers. The narrator spoke in a deep, thrilling voice, right into Harry's ear.

_“If you only knew.” Melford ran a finger over Nye's face, brushing slowly along the line of his jaw. Nye could not take his eyes from Melford's sensuous mouth, the cruel sneer as he spoke. “I've been waiting nearly ten years for this moment.”_

Harry swallowed. This wasn't helping him feel sleepy at all. In fact, he was feeling really quite—

_A thread of self-control somewhere inside Nye snapped, and he lunged at Melford, hardly knowing what he was doing, only knowing that he had to taste that mouth, to call Melford's bluff and end this teasing once and for all. He pressed his mouth against Melford's full, insolent lips in a bruising kiss which took both of their breaths away._

Harry sat bolt upright in bed.

_Nye swirled his tongue into his enemy's mouth, using the pent-up frustration of nearly a decade to deepen the kiss with fervour._

Bloo. Dy. Hell.

_In return Melford's tongue thrust against Nye's with a contemptuous passion, his hands clutching at Nye's uniform, their breath mingling hotly._

They were kissing!

The narrator was warming to his theme, his delivery becoming more intense, his tongue rolling around the heated words.

_Nye gasped with longing as Melford's hands ran under his tunic, the avid caresses setting his skin alight with desire. Nye's hands were still immobile behind his back, his wrists getting numb from the ropes which held him._

And groping! Kissing, and groping, and—

_Melford groaned and rolled his hips against Nye's hard length, trapped beneath the stiff material of his Auror uniform._

They were kissing, and groping, and they were _hard_ , and—

The narrator's voice was husky, intimate. _“Merlin, Porter,” groaned Melford. “You've always been hot as fuck. I want you, you bastard, and I'm going to have you.”_

Harry whimpered. Oh, my god. They weren't actually going to—

The voice changed, became smooth as silk as he described the continuing action. _Melford swiftly Apparated them both to his hideout. Nye's mind was racing. This was the perfect opportunity to discover the secret location... he must be on the alert for any clue, no matter how small. But then Melford's knee pressed between his thighs, and all that Nye could do was shiver with longing and gaze hungrily as his enemy quickly stripped off his robes, revealing pale skin and hard muscle._

Harry flicked off the spell with hands that were trembling. What the fuck was—

He blinked several times into the sudden silence. This had to be—

He swallowed, hard. Then let his hand creep under the covers to where, yep. Oh, boy. To where his own cock was— well, it was bloody hard, wasn't it? He was listening to a story about gay Aurors and he had a rampant hard-on. Well, wasn't that great?

What kind of story spell _was_ this? Some kind of diabolical trick, where Aurors started out perfectly heroic and noble, and then began _kissing_ their own worst enemies, and... rubbing against them, and... and the bloody narrator's voice was so _suggestive_ , so _sly_ , that it made anyone listening just want to... well, want to touch themselves, to grab their prick in their fist and just jerk it up and down, to really give it some with the wrist, to spit in their hand, and go in hard, until they felt the tremors building from the soles of their feet.

 _Fuck_ , thought Harry, remembering the deep purring voice of the narrator. There was probably some kind of charm on the story, to make even straight people turned on. Even absolutely, completely straight men, who had never thought about kissing their enemies in their life. Men who had never dreamt – _uhh_ – about pressing them up against a wall, never had dirty thoughts about their sexy, posh voices whispering filthy things into their ears. Men who would be shocked and bewildered to find themselves unreasonably turned on by the idea of … _nngh_...two powerful wizards getting it on in a rough and lustful way. Who would be appalled to find themselves wanking over it, to find themselves shooting hot spunk over their own fists and groaning at just the thought of that smooth bastard whispering in their ear.

Oh, _fuuuuck_ , thought Harry, and came in a sticky, shuddery mess all over the sheets.

 ~~

Harry's first thought when his eyes opened the next morning was that he needed to know what Nye and Melford did next.

His second thought was that he ought to throw that spell straight in the bin and never listen to such filth again.

His third was that he had morning wood to rival an oak tree, and that he might as well do an experiment. Just to be sure that last night was a one-off. That it had been complete co-incidence that he had happened to get the horn while listening to that saucy, tempting, extremely _male_ voice describing two other extremely male people doing things to one another. Yes, if he listened to the spell again, his erection would probably go away. He was certain of it. Just thinking about the things that deviant Melford was planning to do with poor Auror Porter had already got it deflating... hadn't it?

He squinted at it under the covers. Well, thinking obviously wasn't enough. He needed the real thing to have that effect.

He flicked his wand and the voice began again.

_Melford's chest was smooth and rippling with health, his toned physique gripping Nye's attention like a vice._

_Well_ , thought Harry, _this is ridiculous. It isn't even very well-written._ Nevertheless, he slipped his boxers down around his thighs, and then wriggled out of them as he listened. It was purely to give himself more room to observe the effects.

_As Melford peeled off his tight trousers, Nye watched avidly, his own manhood swelling in his uniform._

Harry's erection bobbed happily in sympathy.

_Melford took himself in hand, his fingers stretching around the girth, and stroked himself to full hardness. Nye groaned, painfully aroused, but unable to get any release, trapped as he was with his hands behind his back._

It was the narrator's fault. That's what it was. He was savouring every word, sounding as though he were there in the room with Harry. Sounding as though he and Harry were watching the characters together. He made it sound real, made the rather silly words sound like they were the hottest fucking thing in the world.

“Melford, you prick,” said Nye in a low voice. “Untie me so I can show you how a real man can make you feel.”

OK. There was a distinct problem here. Harry's cock had not deflated from listening to the story at all. It was as hard as it had ever been. Harder than it usually was when he wanked, if he was being honest, and distinctly harder than what he remembered from being with Ginny. And he hadn't even touched it yet.

_Melford gave Nye a look halfway between disdain and lust. “I'll untie you the minute it suits me, and not before.”_

_With a flick of Melford's wand, Nye's clothes were gone and he stood, hard, naked and proud, before his enemy._

Definitely the narrator's fault. He was just shameless. He sounded as if he loved nothing better than to read this perverted nonsense. Really, as if an Auror would ever behave in such a way, thought Harry, biting his lip and wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock.

_Melford walked once around Nye, brazenly eyeing the hard lines of his body. Then reached to where Nye's bound hands rested in the small of his back, and traced a line down, down, along his spine, towards his buttocks. Sweat broke out on Nye's forehead as Melford spread his cheeks and used a finger to trace around his quivering hole._

Merlin's teeth. How far was this going to go?

_Nye arched his back and pushed himself towards Melford's questing fingers as they breached his entrance, and let out a long, low moan._

Harry reached for his wand with his free hand, to turn the volume up a little. His own ragged breathing was threatening to overpower the voice of whoever this sexy fucker was. This ought not to be allowed. Selling stuff like this where just anyone could pick it up? And then, oh god, making it sound so bloody good, making Harry wish that it was _he_ who was standing there stripped and bound, with his enemy fingering his arse with sure, remorseless fingers.

There had to be some sort of law against this, he thought. If there wasn't, there really ought to be. He would speak to Hermione about it, later...

...No, actually, he probably wouldn't.

And, very soon, Harry stopped thinking at all. His world blurred until there was nothing but Nye Porter, getting fucked good and proper up against a wall, his hands still bound, and the ridiculously provoking voice of the narrator, who conveyed every sound, every sight, every touch, every sigh, with such sincere and seductive power that Harry thought he could probably come just from listening to him. This was one theory that could wait for later, however, and Harry used his trusty right hand to bring himself to a memorable climax, just as Melford came triumphantly up Auror Porter's arse.

 

~~

Harry had hardly had time to shower away the evidence (and change his sheets again) when the Floo chimed from the living room.

“Harry?” came Ron's voice. “Can I come through?”

“Yep,” Harry called. “Be there in a moment.”

“Are you up to much today?” Ron asked.

Harry blushed, but luckily was saved from replying as Ron continued. “I thought I'd go and watch the match, if you fancy coming.”

“Yeah, why not?” Harry walked through with a pile of laundry and dumped it in the kitchen. “Hermione busy again?”

“In the library.” Ron sighed, dropping into an armchair. He picked up one of the Quidditch magazines lying on the coffee table, then spotted the spell package that Harry hadn't yet listened to, the Animagus one.

“You like these story spells?” Ron asked, examining the cover dubiously. It showed a teenage boy transforming into a panther, while a girl looked on. Her eyes were comically wide - whether in admiration or horror, Harry could not say.

Harry thanked his stars that the other spell was tucked away safely in the bedroom. “Yeah. I haven't tried that one yet. They're good for relaxing after work, though.”

Ron dropped the package back onto the table. “Oh, I know. Hermione's always listening to them.” He grinned. “She likes those spicy ones about Aurors getting it on. Have you heard them?”

Harry felt a hot blush sweeping up from his neck, but luckily, Ron was busy laughing and paid no attention.

“Terrible load of old cobblers, they are,” Ron continued. “Hardly any plot, and these great big blokes keep pressing each other up against walls, and getting all hot and bothered in the shower after missions and stuff.“ Ron shook his head. “Still, I'm not complaining. She's usually pretty keen to get to bed afterwards, know what I'm saying?”

Harry was squirming inside. “OK, Ron, enough information already.”

He knew. Oh boy, did he know.

But Ron continued, obviously relishing the chance to discuss Hermione's latest foible with Harry. “Yeah, it's a whole series.” He waved his hand. “There's one about Quidditch players, one about Veelas... Dragon tamers, oh, all sorts. Wicked Wizards, they're called. I bought her the latest one for her birthday. Got me some brownie points, I can tell you.”

Harry forced a smile. “That's great.”

Ron slapped his thighs. “So, shall we go? Get a bite to eat before it begins?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Harry wasted no time in following Ron to the door.

 

~~

Late afternoon, Ron left to try and prise Hermione away from her books, and Harry found his feet leading him to Flourish and Blotts. He'd had a couple of celebratory pints with Ron after the Tornados won and was feeling pleasantly chilled out when the table bearing the display of Wicked Wizard spells caught his eye.

Perhaps he'd buy another title. Hmm. This one seemed to be the Dragon Tamer story that Ron had mentioned. He might as well give it a listen, just to see if it was anything like the tales Charlie told about Romania. And some of the others also looked tolerable. A poster floating above the table informed him that you could buy three spells and get the fourth one free. Well. Why not get the whole lot? It was a bargain, really.

It was for research, naturally, Harry thought, frowning to himself. He was simply curious about why these spells were so popular. Whether the others would have such an effect on him as the first, or whether – as was almost certainly the case – that was one-of-a-kind.

He felt a little embarrassed, looking at the rather foolish covers. Now he knew what to look for, there was rather a lot more toned flesh on display than you might expect for the situations depicted. He was pretty sure Healers didn't usually wear such tight robes, nor go bare-chested underneath them. As for Quidditch, Harry didn't recall the players groping one another in mid-air during a match. But, after all, Hermione liked them, Harry reminded himself. How bad could they be?

Still, he cast a mild Disillusionment spell over himself as he walked to the counter, checking first to see if anyone he knew was around.

It was actually rather exciting, making sure no-one saw him. That's all it was, that strange buzz in the pit of his stomach as the assistant handed him the glossy silver bag containing his purchases. If he hurried straight to the flat, it was only that he was tired after the match and impatient to get back to his home comforts.

 

~~

By the end of the week, Harry had made several discoveries. Firstly, that the spells in the Wicked Wizards series were all voiced by the same man. An anonymous narrator, who the manufacturers had not seen fit to credit anywhere on their packaging. Harry knew, because he had scoured every inch of it carefully, looking for information about what he had come to think of as The Voice. The deliciously well-spoken, talented Voice, whose owner was quite at home rasping out debauched promises and even threw in the odd filthy moan from time to time. He was, in fact, so very accomplished at this task that Harry wondered if there was training for such things, or if it just came naturally to the mystery person.

Second, that the Quidditch-themed story spell was almost as compelling as the Auror one had been. Sweaty, muddy athletes pitting their muscled bodies against one another, on and off the pitch, in and out of the showers, seemed to be just as pleasing to Harry's libido as Dark Wizards fucking noble Aurors half-senseless.

Then there was the Hogwarts one, with the visiting French professor. The Voice murmuring into Harry's ear in beautifully accented French was so shamelessly titillating that Harry thought he may actually combust from the combination of it and his hand, inspired to new frenzies of self-pleasure.

Because it seemed that Harry had become – not to put too fine a point on it – rather talented at masturbation. He'd previously been one for the more utilitarian wank, really. It was merely something that needed doing – firm, no-nonsense strokes, in a regular rhythm, while half-heartedly picturing something suitably heterosexual – and bang, job done.

Now, Harry took his time. He stripped himself naked and lay on the bed, enjoying the cool air which made his nipples tighten, stretching his limbs and watching his cock rise in happy anticipation, feeling the coils of pleasure building in his balls before he had even laid a finger on himself. The Voice lapped soothingly, suggestively in his ear, the soft, sultry tones caressing him and making the hairs on his arms stand up in shivery bliss.

He tried not to think too hard about what it meant. The fact that he got more turned on by listening to some posh wanker reading smutty, rather clichéd gay romance than he ever had from Ginny, naked and eager, in his bed. Not to mention the things it made him aware of. He'd never really _thought_ about what blokes did in bed before. He knew cocks and arses were involved, of course, but he'd never taken time to consider the whole arrangement. Now, he found it deeply... intriguing, would have to be the word. And the Wicked Wizard series certainly satisfied his curiosity to find out more.

It also put some interesting new hypotheses into his head. For instance, he had the idea that if he fingered himself, that it would probably feel pretty good. The characters in the stories, well, they more or less went absolutely batshit for it when they got fingered, and the narrator made it sound like heaven on earth. Surely they couldn't all be wrong?

Harry tried it in the bath first, a soapy digit exploring shyly around his hole. It was awkward to begin with, but the results, when he was able to relax and get the hang of it, were promising. So much so that the next day he threw caution to the wind and transfigured a rubber duck which usually sat on the side of the bath into something resembling a slim, pliable dildo, which he spelled to fuck in and out as he lay slowly wanking his cock. The upshot of that experiment was an orgasm so intense his vision blacked out for a few seconds.

Another revelation as far as Harry was concerned involved blow jobs. He wasn't a complete innocent; he knew full well that a mouth wrapped around a dick could be a joyful and wondrous thing. But he'd never before considered that he might like to be the one doing the blowing.

Again, The bloody Voice had a lot to answer for. It made the whole concept of kneeling down in front of a thick, heavy cock, sliding it between your lips, letting it fill your mouth, and licking and sucking to your heart's content, sound like the most sublime, the most erotic experience that a man could aspire to. There wasn't much that appealed to Harry in the way of practice in this case. He didn't fancy going down on a dildo. But in his mind, he was free to suck cock morning, noon and night.

Ron worked at George's shop during the daytime, but you never knew who else might drop by, so Harry warded the Floo tightly and spent most of the week naked and wanking, listening to The Voice a lot, but also making up his own fantasies, pausing occasionally to make trips out for coffee and food.

And lube. Lots of lube.

His body fizzed with a heady sensuality, where he was constantly in the process of getting aroused, bringing himself to another euphoric climax, or floating in a sweet, soupy post-coital bliss. It was like being fifteen again, but without the madman trying to kill him. He had no worries, no responsibilities, no-one to please but himself. It was the best holiday he had ever had.

He considered writing postcards:

_Dear Hermione,_

_Weather mediocre, but, who cares? Discovered a long slow wank is better than two short fast ones._

_Love, Harry_

_x_

~ 

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Having a fabulous time. Did you know that if you stick a finger up your arse while pulling yourself off, it makes you come like the Hogwarts Express?_

_Love, Harry_

 

~

_Dear Ginny,_

_I miss you. Sometimes. Not in bed though, if I'm honest. Can I ask you something? Was I a really crap lover? I'm starting to think I probably was. I'm sorry._

_Love, H_

_xx_

Hmm. Perhaps not.

On Thursday, an Owl arrived bearing a heavy, cream-coloured envelope.

_Just a cordial reminder that you kindly agreed to be our Guest of Honour at the Charity Fundraiser for War-Orphaned Giants this Friday, 19th September._

Bugger. Harry had planned to stay in and listen to _Nye Porter and the Manticore's Sting_ for the fourth time. It was his favourite. Nye investigated an illegal potions ring and had his drink spiked with an Elixir of Insatiability. The ensuing events were quite educational for Harry and had introduced him to several new words, including rimming. The Voice seemed especially enthusiastic about the rimming, taking on tones of dreamy reverence as he extolled the delights of having your enemy's tongue stuck firmly and lovingly up your arse.

Oh, well. Harry supposed he could always find the time when he got home. Listening to it between courses was probably not the greatest idea, on balance. No.

It seemed only prudent to wank before he went. He decided it would be pleasant to listen to his favourite passage on all fours on the bed, the Transfigured dildo spelled to fill him up. His hand moved alternately in a frantic blur, then achingly slow, edging closer and closer to the inevitable until he spurted his release all over the sheets. He wished he had paid more attention to Molly's lectures about cleaning charms. This week was proving awfully hard on laundry.

Seven o'clock found Harry in front of the mirror, dressed in his smartest robes and trying gamely to do something with his hair. The usual tactics were not working, and even his emergency back-up plan of spelling it flat with a sticking charm wasn't helping. He wondered if maybe it had been adversely affected by too much wanking, then decided that he didn't much care. He grinned at his cheerful reflection, which glowed with health and contentment. This holiday certainly had done him the world of good.

At the pre-dinner drinks party, Harry had been cornered by Lady Mulberry, the patron of the orphaned giants charity, and the Mayor of Hogsmeade, who looked a little like a boiled shrimp, pink and bloated. He was just listening to Lady Mulberry recount a terrible experience her pet Puffskein had suffered last week, and trying to look vaguely interested, when he heard a voice amongst the babble of guests.

_“―such a bore, really can't stand this kind of―”_

Harry pulled himself up straight, instantly alert, like a Crup being offered a bone. The voice was lost in the hubbub again, but tilting his head and ignoring Lady Mulberry's drone completely, Harry thought he heard another snippet.

_“―got absolutely legless on cheap fizz and then fell flat on her arse. Of course―”_

He knew it. It was The Voice. Deep, smooth and expressive, like the finest brandy, he would have known it anywhere. He'd heard it say 'arse' often enough to be quite certain.

Craning his neck, he scanned the crowd, though who or what he was looking for, he didn't know. He could hardly believe it. Lady Mulberry was tapping him on the chest with her fan.

“Mr Potter, you don't seem to be listening—”

“No.” agreed Harry. “No, I'm not.”

“But I want to—”

“Just shhh. Stop talking.” He closed his eyes to Lady M's offended expression, and there it was again, this time, a little nearer.

_“I'd just popped over to Italy to pick up some new shoes, and then—”_

Harry realised two things at once. One, he was more than half-hard, which was a sort of Pavlovian response to hearing The Voice, he supposed. Two, he would never, ever forgive himself if he let this opportunity slip away.

He turned abruptly, leaving Lady Mulberry gaping in outrage, and stalked through the crowd, like a hound on the trail of a fillet steak. He paused from time to time to listen and orient himself. The Voice was even better in real life than it was in the recordings. Pushing his way between two women in tiaras, Harry stopped stock still and held his breath – yes. There it was. The Voice was coming from the balcony, where guests had spilled out into the mild evening air. Harry took a deep breath, adjusted himself in his trousers, and stepped through the drapes, coming face to face with―

Draco Malfoy.

Harry's mouth hung open and his limbs felt like they were frozen. For a moment Harry thought he had made a terrible mistake, but then Malfoy spoke, and he _knew_ he had.

Malfoy's voice was deeper, posher, silkier, and a thousand times more sly and knowing than it had ever been at school. Malfoy's voice was like liquid sex dripping into Harry's ears, like an auditory orgasm, like the promise of untold sensuality and sinful pleasures. Malfoy's voice was, unmistakeably, _The Voice_. And Harry had effectively trained his cock to stand to attention at the sound of it.

Malfoy turned to give Harry an older, sexier version of his trademark sneer, and Harry couldn't help it. He had slain a Basilisk, faced down Voldemort, and cheated Death itself, but the sight of Draco Malfoy – tall, fit, lightly-tanned, and possessed of the voice of a debauched angel – was too much for him. He let out a whimper, and backed away through the drapes, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a loaded tray of drinks.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Draco Malfoy was The Voice. Draco Malfoy worked as a narrator for Wicked Wizards. Harry _knew_ he had recognised the bloody voice, knew it from the start! But Malfoy's voice never used to be so... deep, so sleek, so fucking _indecently hot_. When the bloody hell had that happened?

Harry grabbed a drink from a passing waiter and downed it in one. He needed to get out of here. He needed another drink. He needed—

Lord Mulberry was walking towards him, a serious look on his face.

“Ah, Potter! Anything wrong? My wife seemed to think you were perhaps taken _ill_ , said you behaved most oddly and then shot off—”

“Ah, yes,” Harry admitted. “Sorry about that, I was just... The toilet.”

“If all is now well, it's time to go in for dinner.”

“Er, about that. I'm not feeling awfully—”

“ _So_ good of you to come. We sold a lot of tickets based on the fact that you would be here. You know how it goes. Raised an arm and a leg for those poor little Giants.”

“Oh, good.” Harry looked around for the exit. “I just need to—”

“Yes, this way. You're sitting next to the Canadian Minister for Magic and Clarice Siren, the film star. Between you and me, we're hoping for a big donation at the end of the evening. Try and butter her up a little, won't you?” He laughed, his chins wobbling. “Most obliged, Potter, most obliged.”

Harry let himself be borne along by the elbow and seated between the white-haired Canadian wizard and Ms Siren, who was wearing the most extraordinary, low-cut sequinned robes. It could only be magic holding them up. Oh, god. He could see Malfoy's blond head bobbing above the crowd coming in to the dining room. He just hoped Malfoy wouldn't be seated anywhere that Harry could hear him speaking.

Clarice turned to Harry, a vibrant smile upon her face.

“So delighted to meet you, Mr Potter. I'm quite the fan, you know.”

_Oh, hell._

“My sources have reliably informed me that we have a _lot_ in common. We can discuss it all through dinner.” She let out a low laugh and moved her seat closer to Harry's.

Malfoy was making his way around the tables, which formed three sides of a square with space in the middle for dancing after the meal. He halted a long way from Harry, almost at the far side of the large banqueting hall, and Harry let out a sigh of relief, before realising Malfoy had merely stopped to say hello to someone. Harry watched with a sinking heart as Malfoy moved around the table again, before finding his seat only a few places down from Harry, between a fashionably gaunt witch Harry didn't know, and Lance Fleet, a rising Quidditch star.

Harry could hear Malfoy clearly as he introduced himself to his dinner companions. Even just hearing him say his name made Harry's stomach lurch with lust. Fucking Malfoy! Fucking Malfoy and his evil Voice of Sex! Harry crossed his legs under the table and twitched the tablecloth down so that it covered his lap.

The waiters were bringing the soup. Why was it always bloody soup? Nobody liked it, it was the hardest thing in the world to eat neatly, and you couldn't even hide it under something else on your plate. Harry shot little angry glances at Malfoy, who was sipping soup with nonchalant grace, breaking a piece off his roll and buttering it, and chatting away happily in the fiendish Voice.

Malfoy even ate soup sexily, thought Harry, furious with the whole universe. Malfoy laughed at a remark his neighbour had made, a low, rolling laugh of pure depravity and sin, and Harry twitched and splattered soup on his robes.

God, this was terrible. Clarice was telling him that she had read in Witch Weekly how much he loved walking in the rain, and she'd always loved walking in the rain, and didn't it just show that they were meant to be very, very good friends indeed. And Harry nodded, and tried to smile (although it felt more like a grimace), and all the while, he was rock hard and aching, achingly erect under the table, hearing Malfoy speak. He wondered how everyone at the entire dinner wasn't simply reaching under the table and wanking themselves silly, listening to the bastard talking about the merits of the new Meteor broom over the Firebolt.

Fleet, the Quidditch star, asked if Malfoy still played, and he grinned. “I don't get much time these days to get on a broom, but whenever I can, I do love to get my leg over.”

They were clearing the soup plates and unless Harry was very much mistaken, that was Clarice's foot making its way up Harry's ankle. He pulled away but the foot pursued him.

Fleet made a comment about tactics. Malfoy tossed back his hair, his smile revealing pointed, white teeth, his voice low, confiding, every syllable like an intimate caress. “I'm not much of a one for fancy moves when I'm playing. I like to get my hands dirty – I prefer it hard and fast, you know?”

Harry was having trouble focusing but could not help listening, transfixed, as Fleet nodded and asked Malfoy his opinion of the leading brand of Quidditch supplies

“I prefer Kent's, I must say. Their Quaffles perform much better. I do love to get my hands on a nice, smooth set of balls—”

There was a loud screech as Harry pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up, sweating profusely. Several sets of eyes turned to him, and Clarice looked anxious.

“Sorry.” He twitched his robes to hide the tent in his trousers. “Got to—”

Harry made as elegant an exit as he was able to, given that his erection was beginning to make his eyes water.

The portly shape of Lord Mulberry headed him off at the door.

“All well, Potter?”

“Ah, yes. Fine.”

“Not leaving us so soon?”

“No, no. Just need the loo.”

Lord Mulberry clicked his fingers. “Waiter? Please show Mr Potter to the lavatory. We wouldn't want him to get lost, now.”

Harry followed the hapless waiter as far as the gents, and then darted in the other direction. He found himself in a long, seemingly endless corridor. Buggery fuck. Where was the way out of this place? He tried Apparating, but the wards were too tight.

Taking a corner as if a Dementor were after him, he ran smack into somebody's chest.

Oh, fuck. If it wasn't Mr Bloody Evil Sex Voice Bastard Malfoy himself. Of course it would be. Harry let out a heartfelt groan that sounded like pain.

“OK, Potter, perhaps you'd like to tell me exactly why you keep staring at me.”

The Voice was even worse, up close. It resonated from deep in Malfoy's chest, making Harry get goosepimples all along his arms.

“I wasn't staring!”

“You most certainly were.” Malfoy stepped closer, effectively cornering Harry. His eyes were steel-grey, with a glint of slyness. He was a couple of inches taller than Harry, and his deep blue robes were cut to fit his angular body to perfection. _Oh, god_ , thought Harry. _I'm even thinking like one of those bloody stories, now._

“I was just – I was surprised you were here, OK?”

“What? Think I'm not good enough for this kind of affair?”

“No, it's only that I wasn't expecting– it was a shock to hear your voice after all these years.”

“Hear my _voice_?”

“Well, yes, I mean, I heard you before I saw you, and then—”

“And have you got a problem with me being here?”

“No, I, it was just—” Harry passed a hand over his forehead. Christ, it was hot in here. “Look – it's you, isn't it? Those story spells.”

“What?” Malfoy's voice was suddenly cold and cutting. Still bloody sexy, though, thought Harry helplessly.

“You're the narrator.”

“What the fuck do you know about that?” Malfoy looked quite dangerous when he was angry. Harry's hand went to his wand without thinking.

“It's obvious it's you... I mean, I didn't realise at first, but your voice has changed a lot since Hogwarts, and—”

“Yes, but how did you know about them in the first place? Who told you? Or have you been spying on me again?” Malfoy had his wand out, too, and his face was pale and furious.

“No, I bloody haven't!” Harry protested. “Why would I want to—”

Harry broke off as a hotel porter walked past, giving them a strange look. Hell, thought Harry. Knowing my luck he'll probably call security or something. The last thing I need is for this to end up in the _Prophet_. He looked around and saw a nearby door, slightly ajar.

“We can't talk here.” He pulled Malfoy towards the room. “Come on.”

Malfoy hesitated, but Harry yanked him in and closed the door.

Hmm. It appeared to be some sort of cupboard. And rather more snug than Harry had expected. He fumbled around to turn on the light, which revealed a collection of brooms, mops, and other cleaning equipment... and an unimpressed Malfoy pointing his wand in Harry's face.

“Potter, if you try to hurt me, I'll Hex your arse so fast that—”

“I'm not trying anything. Will you bloody listen? I want to explain.” Harry showed Malfoy his empty hands. “I haven't been spying on you. It's only that I recognised your voice tonight as soon as I heard it. It's the same as the spells. God knows, I've listened to them often enough.”

“I suppose you think you're going to report me or something. Well, for your information, there is nothing illegal about those spells. They're clearly marked for a Mature Audience and involve perfectly legal sexual acts between consenting adults.”

“Nye Porter wasn't consenting when Melford chained him up and fucked him in his private dungeon!”

“Oh come on, Potter, he was gagging for it. That slut Nye Porter is an absolute beast for cock.” Malfoy's eyes gleamed for a moment before he frowned again. “Besides, our lawyers are perfectly content that the stories fall within acceptable limits. If there's anything that goes a bit too far, I just rewrite that section.”

“Hold on... you _write_ the stories, as well?” Harry's mind was spinning. Not only did Malfoy have the voice of his wet dreams, but he also had a seriously filthy imagination. Not to mention the fact that he was standing awfully close to Harry.

“Naturally. Got to scratch a living somehow; post-war, not many people seemed to want to hire a Death Eater. They've done quite well; _Manticore's Sting_ was on Flourish and Blott's best seller list for six months.”

“That's my favourite,” blurted Harry.

Malfoy fixed him with an intense glare. “Your _favourite_? Let me get this straight.” His eyebrows drew together in a fierce knot. “Am I to understand that you listen to my stories... for pleasure?”

Harry nodded, horribly aware of their proximity, of the heat from Malfoy's body, of the warm, spicy scent of Malfoy's cologne.

Malfoy's eyes ran all over his face, as if searching for something. “You're… a _fan_?”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Harry moaned.

Malfoy's gaze lingered on Harry's mouth. His voice was soft and wondering. “I see...”

“They're bloody brilliant.” Harry's breath was coming fast. It was so stifling in there, as if there wasn't enough air to breathe. “And the way you do the characters and everything... “

“You like that, do you?” His voice had changed to the purring, sultry tone that Harry knew so well.

“Hell, yes. Your voice is... “ Harry swallowed, then decided to throw caution to the wind. “It's fucking incredible, you know?”

Malfoy stepped closer, till their legs were almost touching. His lips were soft and parted. He spoke in a whisper... the sexiest whisper that Harry had ever heard. “Oh, I know.”

He rested one hand on the wall behind Harry's head, so that he was leaning in, his lips almost touching Harry's ear. “So, you listen to my stories... and you like the things that happen in them, yes?”

Harry nodded, his throat too dry at that moment for more. Malfoy's hair was tickling his cheek. It smelled amazing.

“I see.”

Every word from Malfoy was making Harry throb with joy. His cock was acting like a dog which had been separated from its master and was now delirious to be re-united again.

“You like hearing about the things that men do together.”

Harry nodded, hoping Malfoy would just keep talking.

There was a hand on Harry's back, firm and hot through his thin robes. It stroked slowly across his spine, playful, yet determined. “Did you like the slutty Aurors, Potter? Did they do it for you?”

The hand moved towards the small of his back, and Harry shivered.

“Or was it those naughty Quidditch players, all sweaty and frantic?”

No matter what he had said about lawyers, Malfoy's voice ought to be illegal. Nobody should be allowed to talk like this, to sound so...

The hand pushed his robes aside and ran a possessive palm over his arse. Harry moaned and pushed back against the hand, which slipped cheekily inside the waistband of his trousers, brushing the top of his arse with such teasing, light caresses.

“Fuck, Malfoy!”

"You like that?”

Harry let out a shaky breath and nodded. "Yes. I want― god, I want―" He couldn't find the words, but Malfoy's smirk seemed to show that he understood. He began undoing Harry's trousers with deft fingers, and – Merlin! – brushing his knuckles across the bulge of Harry's cock, igniting sparks everywhere that he touched.

Harry bucked towards the pressure, but Malfoy's hands were on the move again, stroking Harry's bum through the thin cotton of his pants and then pushing them down snugly around his thighs.

“I bet you liked them all, Potter. I bet you listened to my voice and then touched yourself, didn't you?”

God, the sight of Malfoy's tongue and lips forming those sneery words, the way he sounded so damned pleased with himself...

Malfoy's fingers traced the crease of Harry's arse and then he muttered a spell and Harry felt slickness, coolness, running over his heated skin. Everything seemed to be happening impossibly fast. Like a dream. Like the most fabulous dream he had ever had.

“You love that dirty stuff, don't you? I bet you wanked yourself silly hearing all about it.”

Oh, god, Malfoy was pressing a sure, smooth finger against his entrance, and Harry's cock was so hard that it was almost unbearable.

“You little _pervert_ , Potter.” The finger slipped inside like silk, like honey, setting every nerve ending to dance with delight. “You filthy, filthy boy.” Harry let out a loud moan and writhed against Malfoy's touch, wanting it deeper, more, _now_.

“God, you're so open and ready.” Malfoy sounded amazed, his face glowing with elation as he slid another finger in.

“I used a dildo,” Harry admitted, his cheeks flaming. “Before I came out tonight.”

“Fuck, Potter.” Malfoy had never sounded quite like this, not even at the most explicit moments of the stories. His voice was awed and desperate. His fingers twisted inside Harry, reaching and stroking, deep and voracious.

“I listened to your voice—” Harry gasped as Malfoy's fingers drove deeper. “... You were reading how Nye got down on his knees and begged for it – and I fucked myself right through one orgasm and into the next.”

Malfoy made a snarling sound, and spun Harry around so that he was facing the wall, his palms splaying over the rough plaster. Harry felt his robes tear as Malfoy forced them to one side, yanking Harry's pants and trousers down around his ankles, leaving him exposed and wanting. Malfoy's hands were everywhere, hitching up his shirt to run over the sensitive skin of his sides, pulling Harry's hips back so that he was bent forwards at the waist, greedily parting Harry's arsecheeks and groaning at the sight.

“Merlin. You want this so much.” Malfoy's voice had never been so husky, so raw. “Look at you, just waiting for it.”

Harry dropped his head, his eyes clenched tight. He could picture it all in his mind – himself with his arse tilted up, legs spread as far as his trapped ankles would allow, and Malfoy, undoing the fastenings of his own robes and stepping nearer to cover Harry's goose-fleshed skin with the heat of his body.

The first nudge of Malfoy's cock at his entrance nearly sent Harry over the edge. All the times he had pictured this... closed his eyes and pretended that the dildo was a living, pulsing cock instead of unresponsive rubber... all the times he had lost himself in the sound of Malfoy's voice describing just this act. Malfoy was thicker than the dildo, by far, and Harry basked in the sweet, slow stretch as he slid inside, agonisingly, _gloatingly_ unhurried.

“ _Uhh_. Oh, please—”

“Potter.” Malfoy's voice was throaty and exulting. “Whoever would have thought you'd be begging for my cock, eh?” He gripped Harry's wrists and stayed right where he was, ignoring Harry's attempts to thrust back and impale himself further.

Malfoy's voice in the spells had conveyed an audacious sensuality, revelling in the salacious words, but now Harry realised there had been something held in reserve. Now Malfoy spoke with a rawness and power that Harry could feel to the very tips of his toes.

“But you love it, don't you? You just want it... you want it _deep_ inside you. But you'll have to wait.”

Harry's prick jerked helplessly and his arse clenched with need. Malfoy had pulled back, and with careful movements, was dragging the head of his cock along Harry's rim. It was exquisitely arousing, but Harry ached to be filled. He pushed his arse back and moaned, a low sound of longing.

“Malfoy... you bastard...”

Malfoy leant over until his lips were brushing Harry's neck. His breath came fast, damp against Harry's skin. “Such a dirty mouth. Wherever did you learn such language, Potter?”

“Do it, Malfoy. Just do it.”

“Probably from listening to all those smutty stories. Did you wish it was you, Potter? Did you pretend it was you, getting your arse rammed to the hilt by a man you hardly knew?”

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Harry's voice was a snarling whine of need and anger.

“You know, you'd be a natural at reading the stories yourself. You've got such a delicious sincerity about you.” Malfoy's body was trembling with exertion as he held himself perfectly still. Harry could feel the sweat pressed between their bodies, his back slippery with it.

“Fuck me... Come on and fuck me. Oh, Christ...”

Malfoy's knuckles went white as he gripped Harry's wrists bruisingly tight and pulled right out. For a horrible moment Harry thought it was all over, but then Malfoy slammed back in with a brutal stroke that Harry could feel right in his guts. It knocked the breath out of him, but Malfoy didn't give him time to adjust before he plunged all the way in, again and again, filling Harry with deep, sure thrusts that made his body sing.

Harry's mouth fell open and he braced himself hard to avoid his head being knocked into the wall, but oh, Merlin, nothing had prepared him for the glorious sensation of Draco Malfoy's cock being wedged so far inside him that he saw white spots against his closed eyelids.

Malfoy quickly began to lose his rhythm, his stroke stuttering as obscenities streamed from his mouth. “Potter, you filthy bastard, god... your arse was made for this, you dirty fucker... “

Harry ground himself back against Malfoy, craving more, feeling the pleasure building in his balls but fearing from Malfoy's erratic motions that it was all going to be over at any second. Harry was beyond speech but let out an urgent moan, and, thank fuck, Malfoy seemed to know what he needed and released one of Harry's wrists to grip his needy cock instead.

Malfoy's right hand was smooth and clever and oh, shockingly, delightfully unlike the safe familiarity of Harry's own. With Malfoy's prick driving deep inside him, Malfoy's hand clasped around him, and The Voice making the most incredible sounds directly into his ear, Harry plummeted over the edge, as joyful and fearless as a kingfisher diving towards the water.

Malfoy cried out as he felt Harry clenching around him, and with one last merciless thrust, he spent himself deep inside. As he came, he exhaled in a long, fervent gasp sounding very much like “ _Harry_ ”, which almost seemed the most scandalous thing of all.

Harry slumped against the wall, panting and quivery with amazement. There was a broom handle digging into his shoulder, and his hair was all over his face. God, he felt brilliant. If this week had been a revelation, then sex with Malfoy was like a thunderbolt. Hearing The Voice saying his name in the throes of orgasm had to be about the best experience of his entire life. And he knew that bloody dildo was never going to satisfy him again.

He squinted at Malfoy from underneath his fringe. Malfoy was pink and sweaty and looked fucking excellent with those blue robes hanging open to frame his tanned body, wiping Harry's spunk from his hand and looking thoroughly dazed. As he saw Harry peeking, he began to arrange his face into a more familiar smug expression.

“Bloody hell.” Harry stood up straighter and flinched as some kind of mop fell over and whacked him on the leg.

Malfoy snorted. “Enjoy yourself, Potter?”

“Fuck, yes. It was...” He searched for inspiration. “It was better than when Nye got sucked off in the lift at the Ministry.”

“Mmm.” Even Malfoy's smirk was hot. Annoying, but hot. “You certainly do know my work intimately. I can't deny it's rather flattering.”

Malfoy's body really was unfairly nice. His cock looked bloody good, even as it softened – all plump and surrounded by golden curls.

Harry ran his tongue over his lips. “I think your work is amazing. And, well. I wouldn't mind getting to know _you_ better, as well....”

Malfoy's eyes flashed surprise for a moment, then he traced Harry's hip with his fingertips. “I feel like we got to know _parts_ of each other pretty well, already.”

A tingle of boldness uncurled in Harry's belly. “What I want to know is, where do you get your ideas?”

Malfoy looked alarmed. “What? Just― here and there, Potter. I have a perfectly-functioning imagination, the same as anyone else.” He ran a hand through his rather ruffled hair. “Look, I can understand why you might think― but I can assure you that you're mistaken. They're complete works of fiction and any similarities are purely co-incidental.”

Harry just gazed at him, having not a clue what he was on about.

“The stories I write – they're not about _you_.” Malfoy shook his head firmly.

Harry's mouth fell open. “I never thought that they were!” But part of his mind decided to file away how Malfoy looked now – flushed and slightly anxious – for further consideration later.

A little of the tension fell from Malfoy's face. “Good. I'm glad you weren't so foolish as to delude yourself....”

Harry reached out a hand to run along the smooth skin of Malfoy's waist. His skin was so warm. Warm and firm, and his hipbone jutted deliciously. “I just wondered... if you wanted any help coming up with some more ideas?”

Malfoy's eyes were darting all over Harry's face, warily. “Oh. Right.”

Harry let his smile grow wider.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Are you offering to―”

“I mean, only if you wanted. I expect you have loads of people―”

“No!” Malfoy's hand was tracing his bicep, moving towards Harry's shoulder. “I mean, yes, I do, of course, but... that might be very useful.”

“If you had anything you wanted to test out, for instance.”

“Mmm.” Malfoy bit his lip and touched the tendrils of sweaty hair that lay against Harry's neck.

“I'd like to help. And, you know, I maybe look a bit like Nye Porter.”

Malfoy frowned. “I told you, that's pure co-incidence—”

“Of course!” Harry nodded. “But... it could be useful.”

Malfoy appeared to consider this. “I suppose it could.” He ran his hand over Harry's chest, dragging a fingernail against his nipple through the shirt. “Your robes are torn, Potter.”

Harry didn't answer. God, Malfoy's lips were distracting when he was talking. Harry wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

“Let's take them _off_.” The sly, silken voice was back, and Harry felt something inside him turn to liquid as Malfoy began to undress him, apparently needing no further convincing about Harry's desire to 'help'.

“I've an idea for a story where Nye and Melford are trapped in a small space,” Malfoy murmured against the spot where Harry's neck met his shoulder, fingers busy with Harry's buttons. “People love that kind of crap, you know.”

Harry hoped the moan escaping from his throat could be taken as agreement that he did, indeed, know.

“Do you fancy helping me out with that one?” Malfoy slipped the shirt from his shoulders and began to lick along Harry's throat. “Fuck, you smell good, Potter. I mean, there are a few more things I'd like Nye and Melford to try. While they're stuck in there. It seems a shame not to take full advantage of the situation.”

Harry let his head drop back, not caring that there was some kind of bristly brush digging into him. “You know us Gryffindors. We'll try anything.”

“Anything?”

Harry thought he could never get enough of the way Malfoy's breath hitched, the way his voice thickened. The way he sounded as though he couldn't believe what Harry was saying.

Malfoy met his gaze, his grey eyes burning with a fierce flame. “You should be careful, Potter. It almost sounds like a challenge.”

Harry touched his own lips to Malfoy's jaw. God, who knew that the scratch of stubble against his mouth would feel like _that_? Harry groaned and let his mouth explore the rasp of it, the sharp angles of Malfoy's face. “Try me,” he said.

Malfoy grabbed Harry's bare arse with strong hands and pulled their bodies close together. The press of his body, all hard planes and smooth muscle, felt so fucking right.

Malfoy dipped his head and spoke directly into Harry's ear, as if confiding a secret: the promise of limitless pleasures, and the awakening of desires as yet unknown.

“Oh, I will.”

 

~~

Late Sunday evening, an owl arrived at the Weasley-Granger residence, and a short time later Hermione was alarmed to find her husband in the kitchen clutching his chest and spluttering for breath. He was apparently unable to speak but instead handed her a letter written in a rather familiar scrawl.

_Dear Ron,_

_I'm writing this at the end of the best holiday a man could ask for. I was going to send you a postcard, but what I wanted to say wouldn't fit on one of those little things._

_It's been an eventful week. I probably know now why things didn't work out with Ginny. What I mean is: I realised that I fly for the other team. You know – I prefer my Owl deliveries round the back._

_Oh, bloody hell,_ I like blokes _, OK, Ron? I like them a LOT._

_Anyway, I rather unexpectedly bumped into Malfoy. In a broom cupboard. And we've been 'bumping into' each other ever since._

_So, just to let you know, next time you see me, if I have a stupid smile on my face and generally look as if I've been fucked six ways from Sunday, it's because I have. I may not be able to walk straight, but it's all in a good cause._

_Love,_

_Harry_

_p.s. I wanted to share this with you because you're my best mate and I know you'll be over the moon for me. Won't you?_

_p.p.s. Do yourself a favour and buy Hermione the one about the Durmstrang exchange students. You'll be glad you did._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/80157.html).


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